and the scales fell from his eyes
by Isis Lied
Summary: He sees him now. Face interlaced in white veins and black marble, nightmarish antlers hung at either temple. He sees him—Will, Hannibal, and the topic of betrayal. End of Season 1 Spoilers.


[and the scales fell from his eyes]

He sees him now. Face interlaced in white veins and black marble, nightmarish antlers hung at either temple. He _sees _him—Will, Hannibal, and the topic of betrayal. End of Season 1 Spoilers.

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><p>.<p>

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i. _Betrayal is never done on a whim._

The newly pseudo-diagnosed— pseudo-diagnosed because Frederick Chilton had let his own illusions of grandeur at having his mind under lock and key influence his thoughts— psychopath knows this. He's seen it in countless criminals, from the deranged to the neurotic to the perfectly sane (the ones that make his brain swell with every mismatched thought and breath until he can no longer contain them in the soft, mile-long paths of sulci that pattern his brain). They are the collection of hollow voices that whisper in his chambers, that tap upon his eyelids and force the sleep from his eyes. They do not listen— only speak.

And they used to be his worst fear. Now, in the solitude of his cell, where every sound is amplified, the voices are a comfort. They ring in his ears, pound in his veins, breathe through his lungs. They remind him that he is alive; the cacophony of shrill screams and panicked whispers tether him to the present, keeping him from drifting away in the oceans of his dreams. If the voices are driftwood then he is scrambling for purchase against the rotting boards, fingers splayed as the waves continue to roll in tandem.

_Friend or Monster? Betrayed or the Betrayer?_

These are the thoughts that plague him now; he's made peace with his demons. It is the Devil himself he fights against, clothed in haughty, well-pressed suits and too-polished shoes. He can hear the clacking now— hooves of the same nightmarish stag that pervaded his mind.

"Will."

Funny, he can even hear his voice now.

"_Will." _

The voice is there again, smooth, soft, and all too familiar. Peering through lidded eyes, the man rolls away from the stone wall, coming face to face with the monster known as Hannibal Lecter.

"Hello, Will." It is cordial, neither too familiar nor impersonal. It is spoken with the same thick, Danish accent that he imagines will follow him to the grave.

It is with a tremendous effort that Will rises, the harsh shadows of the bars flickering across his face. They are as dark as the bags under his eyes.

Raking a hand through his messy, unkempt locks, the ex-special investigator speaks, "Hello, Doctor Lecter." There is no inflection in his voice.

A long, predatory smile forms on the psychiatrist's face, the sharp, perhaps even aristocratic contours of his cheeks lifting slightly. There are crow's feet at the creases of his eyes and Will suppresses a sudden shudder. Hannibal is _happy_ to see him. Elated. There is no folly, no façade to speak of. It is genuine happiness (as if seeing an old friend) and it makes him want to vomit.

_I see you. The scales have fallen from my eyes—_

_And I know that you've betrayed me._

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><p>ii. <em>He is a clever connection of neurons— nothing more.<em>

That is what Hannibal thinks, that is what he tells himself as he drags the saw below the patella, severing the sticky threads of connectivity between the femur and the tibia. The bones give way to the serrated edge, followed by hot rivulets of blood. Hannibal does not bother keeping the blood on the table; the coagulated crimson drips languidly to the tile floor, a staccato that trails all the way to the drain.

Will Graham is a novelty. An anomaly. And perhaps the only person who could look past his string of purple-prose and eloquent metaphors. He _sees _him.

But all infatuations eventually end. The trivial game of cat and mouse— mongoose and snake, rather, would come to a conclusion. A tale, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

He'll continue to play the Devil. Be the Wendigo that stalks Will's dreams. With cloven feet, he paces to and fro, all actions solely for his own entertainment.

Yet…

There's a lingering. He had been so close to finding a person who understood him—even empathized with him. And while the chance at true friendship (one not manipulated through psychiatric means) had been smothered by his own hands, Hannibal felt a calmness settle over his features. With pursed lips he continued his work, sawing off limb after limb with the help of the machine.

With its roar in his ears he could almost forget the pained cry Will had let out when Jack Crawford shot him in the shoulder. Or the cries he had let out in his cell when he thought he was alone. Instead, he focused on the future— and on his next visit to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

It had been his choice and Hannibal Lecter rarely regretted his decisions. There was a darkness in his young friend which had yet to be unraveled from the recesses of his mind.

There was still time; Will Graham had not lost his interest now confined to a cell. Not when the chance at bringing out another monster, another wendigo, rested at the tips of his nimble fingers. Oh, how he loved the potential betrayal wrought…

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><p>iii. <em>Do devils weep in Hell?<em>

Will Graham rolls the question around in his head, eyes flickering to the stone walls and then to the ceiling. The fluorescent lights shake almost in time with his tempered breaths and he swears he can see Hannibal's smile in the trembling glow.

He's had a lot of time to think of the _good _doctor; plenty of time to imagine all the mismatched events thundering in his brain.

The killer had been standing in front of him the entire time. Hiding in plain sight. Playing a hero and a mentor and a… and a friend. Gulping, Will finds the strength to sit up, feeling the strain of lethargy spread over his limbs.

He's so _tired_. Every day he was confined to the staleness of his single cell, having to imagine all the fanciful dishes that Hannibal was making— using human ingredients.

In the silence of his holding cell, he asks the question, hearing it reverberate in the air saturated with the thoughts of madmen.

"Do devils weep in Hell, Dr. Lecter?"

He can hear the ghost of his voice, whispering into the shell of his ear. _"It depends on your perception of both devils and hell." _

"In a situation where both exist, what would you think?"

"…_If they were truly devils they would never weep; they would see their deeds as good. Doing evil to weigh the scales between heaven and hell. Tears would never cross their minds." _

Will laughs, head pressed against the pinstriped pillow cover. He laughs until the gut-wrenching chuckles become dry sobs, sweat pooling against his back and under his fringe. The now messy mop of curls is pushed back with trembling hands. He steadies his body with slow breaths, steadies his mind as a new goal weaved itself into every fabricated thought.

He would prove the good doctor to be the Chesapeake Ripper— or die trying.

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><p>an: I tried? On a random note, all the people I know irl who watched and enjoyed Hannibal are either pre-med students… or artists. It's kinda weird, haha.

Anyway, I hope this drabble kept the characters true to their nature. I'd love some feedback, friends~

_**Review?**_

-isis


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